These Precious Hours
by juncici
Summary: drabble!fic Sherlock/John, Moriarty/John. Coffee Date - in which Moriarty swoops in to woo John while his man is out.


_**Authors Notes: **__I wrote this because recently, I've been consumed with an all-encompassing need to squeal over how ADORABLE BBC John Watson (aka Martin Freeman) is. Moriarty and Sherlock both agree with me, and this drabble!fic was born. Yes this will be a series._

_**Pairing: **__Moriarty/John, implied Sherlock/John for now. John never tops in my head!canon __**never ever ever**__ so beware._

_**Warning: **Unbeta'd, not britpicked, PG for now probably M later on._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Coffee Date<br>**__In which Moriarty swoops in to woo John while his man is out._

* * *

><p>He was on his way home from Tesco—meals were hard to scam out of Mrs. Hudson when Sherlock wasn't around—when a luxury black sedan with tinted windows pulled up beside him. It was a scene that was becoming alarmingly commonplace.<p>

"Oh, no," He groaned as the peaceful day he had meticulously planned out in the wake of Sherlock's absence fell apart at the seams, "No, no, no, _no_."

The backseat window rolled down, and out popped a familiar smiling face. "John, my dear! Fancy seeing you here, would you like a ride?"

John squared his shoulders then marched resolutely forward. Maybe if he pretended nothing out of the ordinary had happened, then he'd get a break for once. No such luck.

"There's been a cannibal clamouring for my help on kidnapping some newborns." Moriarty's cheerful voice piped up from behind John. "He says he has a delightful new recipe he wants to try out."

"That's actually really disgusting," John couldn't help but snap, although he didn't stop walking.

"It is dis_taste_ful," Moriarty agreed. "But money is money and I _am _a consultant."

"You don't care about money," John pointed out before he could stop himself. _Damn it_. Ignore the megalomaniac crime lord John Watson. Do not urge him on.

Moriarty's voice sounded pleased, and surprised, "Oh, but I do. I have a delightful little flat here in central London I've become rather attached to, and my landlady isn't nearly _quite_ as accommodating as yours. Besides, I think the ensuing chaos would be a lot of fun, don't you agree?"

"That's really Sherlock's area, Moriarty, not mine." John replied tightly, scanning the vicinity for familiar CCTV cameras. Mycroft kept tabs on him, he knew he did. There were none that he could see, and he had become quite adept at spotting them in recent months. He cursed, "I don't understand why you think I want to know all of this."

"Stop that," Moriarty admonished, "and this ignorance is very unbecoming of you John. Especially when it's feigned."

John slowed.

"I'm thinking dinner."

"I'm thinking _no_."

"Cannibal, John," Moriarty chided, as if _John _was the one being unreasonable.

John scowled, his tone accusatory, "You sick bastard, you'd do it whether I go out to dinner with you or not."

"Perhaps," Moriarty acquiesced. John finally stilled. Moriarty allowed himself a small smile—well, John wasn't looking, and the blond was so _cute _when Moriarty could see those little cogs in his brain turning.

"But I can't be sure."

_Aw, _he was _fishing_.

"You can't," Moriarty agreed amicably. "We can go for lunch instead if you'd prefer that."

"Sherlock would get mad."

"_Sherlock,_" Moriarty frowned, "is not your keeper. And he's in the continent right now. There's no reason why he should know." Never mind that Moriarty was probably going to gloat endlessly after the man came back.

"Coffee," John bartered.

Jim Moriarty sighed inaudibly and allowed himself a moment of self-pity—really, why was this so difficult; he should just box the man up and be done with all this nonsense—but as his Ma always said, 'When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.' Moriarty was a firm believer in this brand of optimism and applied it to many areas of his life to great effect. There was no reason it wouldn't work in this situation as well, albeit it was coming along slowly.

He took a moment to admire the distinct colour of John Watson's hair under the afternoon sun, how adorable the man looked in his grey Aran jumper, and the way his arse curved so nicely under his camel corduroy pants.

_The good ones,_ he consoled himself, _are well worth the extra effort._

"A coffee date it is then," he relented. "I'll call you tomorrow to set up the time."

With that the tinted window rolled up as the luxury sedan zoomed away, leaving John Watson behind to sputter incoherently on the side of the road.


End file.
